


First Contact

by elanor_pam



Series: The Golden Age [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Royalty, Space Opera, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:22:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elanor_pam/pseuds/elanor_pam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Coalition states for the record that it considers Her Imperious Condescension, Empress of Alternia and its conquered territories a Criminal, a Liability to her own people, an immature brat unfit for power, a Crazy Old Bat and an Abuser, and we do hereby charge her with Corruption, Corruption of Minors, Exploitation, Exploitation of Minors, Slavery, Slavery of Minors, Indoctrination, Indoctrination of Minors, Violation of the Prime Directive and Violation of seventy percent of the Chart of Universal Rights for the Sapient Species, and we declare to unanimously hold her in Contempt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Contact

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Rainbowbarnacle for being my beta and my ideas-bouncing person, and enduring my endless prattle about this AU, its backstory and politics and all sorts of stuff. 

It was never supposed to be _hard_.

Oh, yes, it was expected to be bloody, and tiring, and messy, and above all else _glorious_. To be a gear in the Empire’s conquest machine was to be constantly greased by sweat and guts. But when one graduates the home planet, one has certain expectations of reality. And these expectations aren’t usually challenged.

Expectation number one is that, while the enemies are alien, the actual _danger_  lies in your fellow troll.

Therefore it follows that trolls are and will always be bigger and badder than aliens; expectation number two.

And expectation number three is that one only has to march in the direction the Condesce points to in order to find an easy target in which to take out the helpless, sourceless rage of troll life. The enemy is nearly always docile and inferior, terrified mewlbeasts all too eager to drop to their knees and beg for mercy; and when it isn’t, it’s hopelessly outmatched anyway.

Perhaps the Empire has grown complacent. Perhaps this civilization is just that powerful. The only certainty is that an entire brigade has been wiped out of the cosmos, and -- though it’s unwise to mention this fact too loudly -- the ruling castes are at a complete loss for a reaction.

Word out is that Her Imperious Condescension will not so much as tolerate mention of this humiliation, which probably makes for awkward strategy meetings. But trolls are natural gossipers, despite all the lone brooding badass chromosomes officially marked by the Imperial Genome Project, and rumors spread anyway. They speak of an elusive enemy and incomprehensible maneuvers; of ships that blinked into range, spread chaos, and popped out in a handful of minutes; of the one target captured under great duress which turned out to be completely empty, and which swallowed an entire station into a black hole midway through scienterrorristic dismantling.

It’s no fun to be on the other side of an unfathomable enemy, as these recent experiences have taught you. And it’s even less fun to be in such a position when you know they’re literally outside and in range, though barely a blip on your most advanced radars, while your high-blooded captain vociferates to the hopeless cavalreaper division lined on deck about all the numerical advantage you possess, check out these numbers! So many numbers! As if the enemy hasn’t made a mockery of your numbers already.

A pall of despair floats thick over the deck, an unconscious projection from all the minor telepaths onboard. You sympathize deeply with it. It was never supposed to be this way. You were supposed to die in a cycle of revenge, or from a highblood’s lack of mercy; or in a battle frenzy on an alien planet, covered in alien blood and possibly stricken down by friendly fire. A death that mattered, that assured you of the inherent superiority of your people. Instead, you are about to be offhandedly erased from existence by a faceless and voiceless horror, a menace implacable and incomprehensible, a race whom trolls could never possibly understand or communicate with, and you think: This is _so_  unfair.

The lights spontaneously dim. 

“Greetings, valiant warriors of the Alternian Empire!” 

You jump to your feet in surprise, and the generalized clatter tells you others have as well. The confusion doesn’t last long, though -- its source is incredibly obvious, if translucent, and it stands on your deck amid a soft glowing mist as if under artistic spotlights.

The figure is hooded, and its colors are faded-- or perhaps purposefully soft; the cloth and adornments it wears are of noticeable quality and texture, delicate as only the powerful can afford to waste time and care on. 

“I am Jane Dargason of the Crocker Line, Queen of Skaia, Chairwoman to the United Galaxies and Representative of the Coalition of the Free Systems, and through this recording I would like to extend my warmest regards to your people!” she speaks with the barest accent. “This message is delivered in the name of all inhabitants of the Free Systems, and, for all diplomatic and legal purposes, its contents are factual; its offers are valid; and these offers are to be considered retroactively valid as of its playing.”

She raises both hands -- one of them holds a leafy twig -- and pushes her hood back, revealing disturbingly trollish features in an untrollish whole. There are no horns, not even ones stumpy enough to be hidden under her headdress; her eyes are a blue too bright to be natural, and her skin is an unmatching shade of brown. She's alien, and yet she's not alien _enough_.

The Highblood freezes during her introduction, then starts slashing at the obvious holographic projection amid much snarling. Sometimes you could swear he’s actually a clown cultist, despite his claims to the contrary. The recording itself is clearly unfazed by his ferocious rapier strikes; in fact, her voice somehow reaches loud and clear even through his racket.

“The Coalition states for the record that it considers Her Imperious Condescension, Empress of Alternia and its conquered territories a Criminal, a Liability to her own people, an immature brat unfit for power, a--” she cocks her head minimally-- “a Crazy Old Bat and an Abuser, and we do hereby charge her with Corruption, Corruption of Minors, Exploitation, Exploitation of Minors, Slavery, Slavery of Minors, Indoctrination, Indoctrination of Minors, Violation of the Prime Directive and Violation of seventy percent of the Chart of Universal Rights for the Sapient Species, and we declare to unanimously hold her in Contempt.”

There's only the swishing of the rapier and the grunts of your captain.

“And in view of this gross miscarriage of power and justice,” she says, almost cheerfully unaware of his doomed efforts, “the Coalition as a whole, and I, personally, as sovereign queen of Skaia, offer asylum and protection against the Condescension to whoever feels slighted, injured, frightened, victimized, unsafe and uncomfortable under her and the society she upholds. If any of you accept our offer we will guarantee your physical, mental and emotional integrity for the duration--”

“ _Don’t believe her!!_ ” the highblood roars, spit flying high. He’s still trying to stab the projection. Nobody has so much as moved an inch.

 “We require no information, technology or favor in return,” she continues. “It is our belief as a civilization that the well-being of each one of us is the responsibility of our society as a whole, and that upholding the means to a healthy and satisfying existence is the duty of those appointed to rule. Her Condescension’s failure to perform this duty is a personal affront to all hundred-and-sixteen-thousand members of the Inter-Galactic House of Numbers, and this offer of asylum is not merely a matter of mercy, but of pride.”

Your captain has finally given up on stabbing the air, and appears to be looking for the projection’s source by covering lamps with his palm, ripping computer panels out and turning chairs over.

“To accept this offer for asylum, you need only raise your right hand.” She does so herself, raising her twig in what was probably some sort of ceremonial gesture. “Raise your right hand, and you will be considered a citizen of the United Galaxies, afforded all its protection and privileges.”

“ _I’ll kill anyone who does!_ ” your captain screams, turning on his heels and looking around himself like a sniffing barkbeast-- and then pausing in shock, because Ensign Suremark _just raised her hand_.

She sits on her control chair, small thick arm raised over her head and her eyes staring hard and challenging straight at him without a shred of fear. She never looked at anyone that way. She never so much as glared at her food that way. She never once challenged the captain in that way either, which was particularly significant as they were kismesises; but then again he was the one who decided they were.

For long moments they just stare at each other, him in dismay and her in flat suicidal resignation, and it’s almost romantic. But then it’s over: he pulls out a pistol and a hole pops through the chitin back of her chair.

She jumps a little, then looks down open-mouthed at her unmarred chest.

And suddenly the enemy apparition is standing by Suremark’s chair, her previous spot still lit brighter than the rest of the room; she offers a translucent hand, and Suremark touches it, confusion, fear and hope finally cracking through her face.

“Come now, my dear,” says the Queen, tugging Suremark gently to her feet; even as you look, she seems to become as shimmery and translucent as the hologram. “A flower like you deserves so much better than this.”

Your captain shoots two, three more times, but all he does is blow holes on the machinery and topple the chair down. Suremark stares in wide-eyed surprise at the room, the chair, the hand holding hers, her own chest; the alien merely fails to acknowledge the noise.

Somewhere behind Suremark’s panel, another hand shoots up.

“And you too!” says the envoy, cheerfully, immediately popping up by this new person _even though she was still with Suremark_ \-- but they fade away soon, and another hand rises, and your captain swivels around to shoot at them ineffectually; someone laughs, and the intruder laughs right along.

“Yeah, you too!” she says, clapping her hands and pointing cheerfully at the navigator as he disappears from his chair in a blink. A few holes burst through his station, but the intruder is already approaching someone else: “Of course you can come too, sweetie, don’t look so scared-- oh _do_  quit with that, young man!”

She waves her twig at the captain in an annoyed flick, and against your wildest expectations _nothing happens_. He keeps shooting and she keeps dodging through chairs and ranks at a sedate pace as she attends to hands being raised, her cape fanning behind her; it’s unreal.

“What’s with him?” _Bang_. “What a boor!” _Bang_. “You know, among my people it’s said that expecting different results--” _Bang_. “--from the same set of actions is a sure sign of madness. Sigh.” _Bang_. And she moves on to outright mockery of his efforts.

“You can’t touch this.” _Bang_. She picks up her skirts and shakes them a little. “Neener-neener.” _Bang_. She starts a weird jig. “Lah-dee-dah... oh, wait!” _Bang_. She covers her mouth with her twig, alien eyes wide in dismay. “I’m supposed to be a recording! Whoops. Aw, bugger it. _Don’t!!_ ”

There’s a flash, and the captain’s saber flies right through her chest -- and Direstar’s -- and crunches halfway into the wall at his back.

She throws her arms up. “Don’t you have the sense god gave a _child--_ ” she approaches Direstar, who’s staring poleaxed at the metal sticking out of his chest, and puts a hand on his shoulder. “I am so sorry, son, this should have been done properly, but the transfer kicks in automatically for life-and-death cases. Will you take asylum?” He nods nervously, and she nods ruefully in return; she glances theatrically back at the captain, then leans in and stage-whispers: “He makes it so _easy_ , doesn’t he?”

Direstar giggles nervously and is gone, predictably leaving the saber behind. (There’s not a drop of blood on it.)

“Well!” She raises her arms high, in a gesture less ceremonial than festive, “I’d love to humor this explosive young man a little longer, but time is running out! Think fast. Who’s coming with? You only get a little longer to decide!”

Hands shoot up among the ranks and immediately disappear with a pop of displaced air. The lines dissolve into chaos as members scuttle away from traitors, breaking lines and tripping over each other. Your captain doesn’t seem to know who to aim at, and his bullets blow holes in the walls and ricochet from railings without seeming to hit anyone. He loads and unloads bullets, drops the pistol in frustration and pulls out an equally ineffectual laser rifle; all the time, the mysterious royal interloper skips among the chaotic ranks, high-fiving raised hands right before they’re gone.

“Count of three!” she shouts. “Going once!” she points at your co-worker Daypurge, one moment desperately waving her hand by your head and gone the next. “Going twice!” she points to a cluster of whispering trolls who raise their hands together as if angling for a synchronized exit. “Aaaaand... _over!_ ”

She disappears, and the deck feels immense, cold and empty in her absence. The lights don’t brighten back up. Beside you, a line of scorched slag runs from floor to ceiling where Daypurge used to seat, her chair smoldering gently in two pieces. The captain steps over a broken tile, glaring at each remaining bridge worker, at the milling, confused soldiers; his boots make an ominous _clonk, clonk_  sound with each slow step. The fury in his face would have been awful to behold, if it weren’t undercut by badly disguised fear. Some component or other clatters to the floor. His mouth twists in a sneer.

The Queen’s head peeks out from behind his cape.

“Psy~che!” she sings, and steps out from behind him. “Who else is coming?”

You raise your hand.


End file.
